


Home for the second time

by Allthegenericnamesweretaken (Dingsbums)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: CPTSD, Collegestuck, Humanstuck, PTSD, Trauma, coming home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:54:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23320546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dingsbums/pseuds/Allthegenericnamesweretaken
Summary: Dave's second term at uni ends, and he finds himself faced with no choice to come back to a home he thought he'd safely left in the past.
Kudos: 12





	Home for the second time

Two months away from bro and the days had been a little clearer. A little harsher, a little sharper. The air up north bit and stung - there was a pulse and presence to university life, like something small and thriving. Many little somethings. Life ends. Term ends. The flight back to Texas had the same surreal brevity as his daily commute. 

It wasn't until he stepped into the lobby of the apartment complex that the scale of the world seemed to buckle in on itself. All the progress he'd made, all the weeks it'd taken to learn how to breathe freely seized at the echo of the past, manifested in the looming familiarity in every mould stain, every scuff, the memorably patterned flicker of the lights. They stood as the court, he was the accused, the jury was in: the past was the present. Dave Strider was home.

His blood drained from his brain, even as he walked. Readjusted his bag strap, set his suitcase down for a second. Dread clawed at his stomach, but couldn't find purchase in his mind as he ascended as if in a dream. Climbing was so much harder now, he breathed hard and made for the elevator on the second floor up. He could do it, he knew he could, but there was no reason not to take little mercies.

Whilst he could, something inside him sang. It was shrill, and it was quiet. 

The elevator rung to indicate it had reached the top floor and he stumbled swimmingly from the opening doors. He barely looked - his memory had betrayed him, he swung like a wheeled thing on rails, like a rollercoaster at the summit, blind and insensitive to what was yet again to come. He didn't raise his eyes, and knocked on the front door. 

Well, that was funny, but he didn't smile. No one was home. He was fumbling for his keys before he realised it, he knew the one by its edge and part of him hated how smoothly it slotted into the lock, how easy it was to slip back into the mechanism. He checked the hall before dragging his bags behind him and closed the door lightly. Eyes skimmed the floor for trapwires, again above for cameras. It'd been years since he'd had to worry, but old habits die hard. The past had a habit of resurfacing whilst your back was turned.

Bags were in his room, windows open. The scent of asphalt was overpowering and he couldn't breathe. Or bring himself to be anxious, not when it was so familiar, so reliable. He struggled with the sensation of sinking, locked at the windowsill and tracing the skyline like braille, searching for both familiarity and difference. Anything to prove he wasn't here. Anything to prove he was now. Perhaps he just wanted to be sure it wasn't then again, but the unremitting welcome offered no comfort. He felt selfish.

The door opened behind him, if the billow of air was any indication. Not turning, he merely tilted his head to acknowledge the sound. He didn't want to look. It was too easy, too easy to slip back into this, analysing every motion, pre-determining the interpretation of every stance or enunciation. 

"Hey lil man. You home?" 

"Hi. Just got back." His voice sounded different. Why did his voice sou-

"Well there's food in the fridge. I'll let you unpack, but then do fajitas sound good?" Actual food? This was definitely not then. Fajitas instead of fighting, sauce instead of swords lining the fridge... he was getting distracted. 

"Yeah, thanks bro." That things were different gave him no buoyancy. He still felt relief as his door was closed. He ought to unpack, but the idea felt too much like a resignation. As long as his belongings were in that bag, they were vital and untainted, safe from the staining stew of memories that was the Texan night air. Instead, he rooted beneath his bed for a wedge to jam beneath the door, and collapsed back on his bed. He could live out of his suitcase for six months. He'd done worse. Was it denial? Absolutely. Rose would have a field day. 

He'd called her just before he boarded the plane, actually. She knew, of course, what this meant to him. Perhaps that's why the thought of talking to her now twinged in his chest a little uncomfortably. He didn't want to cough her out, but he was back and he was already sick and wheezing on the warm summer air. He'd known this would happen, he'd called from a final port of contact. He told himself it was ridiculous, but throughout the night the freedom of the past two months came to him in shards and glances. He felt immersed in static. He got random shocks from benign memorabilia. He'd swell with tears and simply let them go, exhausted in the act of trying to reach the cause. 

He would sleep for twelve hours. He was always hungry, but never had an appetite. Sometimes he would lose minutes, sometimes hours, but could never be sure. Projects half finished. What day was it? He felt drugged. Locked into the grim assumption that he was not going to move past the static frame of his room until long past his childhood years. He felt nauseous, he felt like crying. 

He lay on the floor, watching the ceiling fan spin and home to him was a university accomodation contract ended at 5 o clock noon that day. He couldn't grieve.

**Author's Note:**

> I have CPTSD and the corona crisis means I'm back at home, which is the last place I need to be. This is trashy and unedited, but I needed something to occupy me for the past hour. All the love to others in this situation.


End file.
